


Perhaps

by aohatsu



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fire, Healing, Huddling For Warmth, Identity Porn, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Rescue, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, Stabbing, Touch-Starved, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:48:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25679878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: “You saved me?” Éomer asks, and is surprised at the hurt in his throat, the way the words are rough between his lips.“I suppose that’s true enough,” the man says, finally, “but I’d argue it to be the opposite way around. You saved me first, after all. Do you not remember the battle?”“No,” Éomer says shortly. “Tell me.”
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 101
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Ocean Witch, Battleship 2020 - Red Team





	Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



Éomer awakes suddenly in the dark, alert to the silence surrounding him.

The room is warm enough, despite the soft noise of wind outside the wooden walls. That and the small fireplace, cooking cauldron and two skinned rabbits with several plants and herbs hanging near it, signifies that he’s in a small cottage of some kind.

He’s lying on a pallet laid out on the dirt floor, thin blankets both beneath and atop him. He tries to sit up, only to gasp with pain and fall back to the ground, turning his head to grit his teeth and groan as quietly as possible into his own shoulder.

A sharp, stabbing pain of torn skin and muscle radiates up from his lower left abdomen. Gingerly, he runs a hand down his side, fingers sliding over carefully applied cloth and healing salve. He closes his eyes and breathes through the pain. A wave of dizziness overcomes him, and he nearly feels the need to roll over and be sick but manages, somehow, to contain the urge.

He’d been injured in battle then.

Somehow, whoever owned this cottage had found him and brought him back to try their hand at healing his injury rather than allowing the orcs to finish him off; he’s grateful, if bewildered and wary of how they might have managed such a thing.

If his Éored had not found him and taken him back to Edoras, then it does not bode well that someone else managed the task—how did they get past the orcs?

He’s pondering the questions he needs answered when the door opens, a cold chill runs through the room, and a man steps in the door before shutting the door quickly in a clear attempt to keep the cold wind out. He turns, and Éomer has his first glimpse of his seeming savior’s face.

He’s shockingly young, younger yet than Éomer who is young yet to have been made a Marshal of the Riddermark. More than that, the man is fair of face with raven-colored hair, his cheeks and mouth red from the cold and his eyes wide with surprise. Eomor finds himself wishing he could see what color they are, but the scant light of the small fireplace is hardly enough to do more than cast shadows in dark.

Dark or not, however, it’s easy to see that his savior is stunningly beautiful.

“You’re awake,” the man says, his voice deep but as soft as bard’s song before the men have had a chance to get far into their cups. “I was starting to fear you wouldn’t move again, though your heart kept stubbornly beating.”

“You saved me?” Éomer asks, and is surprised at the hurt in his throat, the way the words are rough between his lips.

His savior puts down the small bowl he’d been carrying and comes closer, close enough to see the softness of his features, the blue-grey coloring of his eyes. Éomer can smell him too, and beneath the familiar scents of dirt, horse and sweat is something dangerously sweet and clear, as though walking through the tall grass as you hunt for flowers with your young sister after a warm summer rain.

It has been long now since even Éowyn has been tempted by such childish endeavors, yet the sense-memory is as strong as if they had been laughing and playing just yesterday rather back before their father had died and their mother was taken from them by illness.

Still, it is the familiar smell of horses that has Éomer so intrigued, and he would scoff at himself if he were not being so clearly watched—he is truly a man of the Rohirrim to be taken in by the smell of horses when the fresh smell of grass and flowers are within reach.

Still, the smell tells Éomer enough—this man, the one who saved his life, is an omega, and an unclaimed one at that.

The man settles on the ground beside Éomer, far enough that he does not touch, yet close enough that if he reached out, he easily could. The pain in Éomer’s abdomen is sign enough that Éomer does not have the ability to stop this man, whatever his intentions may be. He watches closely, fingers twitching.

“I suppose that’s true enough,” the man says, finally, “but I’d argue it to be the opposite way around. You saved me first, after all. Do you not remember the battle?”

“No,” Éomer says shortly. “Tell me.”

The man sighs, but nods without any sign of disobedience.

“I was racing through the hills with a pack of orcs at my back,” he says, and there’s no inflection in his tone. He speaks as though such things are little beneath his notice. “You and four others came riding toward my defense. I know not why you were there, just that if you had not been, I would have been dead long before I had the chance to save you in return.” He smiles, softly, though it is not one that reaches his eyes, and he continues, “You and your men fought bravely, but you were clearly ill-prepared for battle and were outnumbered. Your men—I’m sorry, they did not survive. The last orc, before I cut off its head, had had just enough time to stab you with a broken shard from an axe.”

Éomer tenses at this short tale. So that is how he was injured, and that he why his Éored had not ridden with him back to the cities of Rohan—he had been likely out with a small hunting party when this man had come barreling through in need of help.

“How long has it been?”

“Six days,” the man answers without pause. “I wished to carry you to a city where I might seek aid, but a storm came through. It is only by luck that I found this abandoned place to take shelter in, or perhaps the good sense of your horse who was truly the one to bring us here.”

Despite these unfortunate circumstances, Éomer smiles softly at this comment about Firefoot.

“Firefoot survived? He’s here?”

“He spent the first two nights of the storm inside with us. By the third day, I had to put him outside, despite the cold snow—he would have it no other way.”

Éomer laughs, and then hisses and takes a slow breath and a stabbing pain shoots through his side. The way the man tenses and seems to move closer suggests he means to touch Éomer at this, but in the end, he doesn’t.

“He is a stubborn old thing. Disciplined and intelligent enough, but a damned pain in the ass when he wishes it. He wouldn’t like to be cooped up in a place like this, no.”

The man nods, a quirk of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

Éomer sighs, resting again. He can hardly keep his eyes open. The pain and the desire to know his rescuer are the only things keeping him from falling back into unconsciousness now.

“I am Éomer,” he says, and leaves off the name of his House for there is no need of it or his titles in this small, temporary cottage. He gives in to the urge to close his eyes as he says, “Tell me your name.”

The man hesitates, and then, as if steeling himself, reveals, “I am Faramir. It is a pleasure to meet you properly, Éomer. Thank you for coming to my aid.”

“Aye, and thank you for not leaving me or my horse to die.”

When next Éomer awakes, there is light filtering in through the cracks in the wood of the old cottage. Despite this, the room is quiet but for the crackling of the still-burning fire and the soft inhale exhale of the body he immediately registers as being next to him—close enough to feel, and yet not close that they are actually touching.

They are sharing the pallet, though barely, Faramir huddled so close to the edge and away from Éomer’s body that it is clear he desperately wished there was another option besides the sharing of these thin, limited blankets.

Éomer, who is quite used to sharing pallets and blankets and space with not only Theodrid and Éowyn but any number of his men as well, finds this oddly bewildering even if they are strangers. If it is due to Éomer’s status as an unbonded alpha in combination with Faramir’s as an unbonded omega, then it’s nearly as bewildering, for surely Faramir is aware that Éomer, even should he be the type of man to make an unwanted approach, is far too injured to attempt it or even be physically capable of the deed.

As it is, he’s unsure if he’ll be able to muster the strength to stand and make his way outside to piss, which he sorely needs to do. He attempts it, easing himself up slowly, but the most he manages is to sit up with his back braced against the wall, sweat pouring down his forehead from the effort he expends.

Faramir, having woken up sometime during Éomer’s struggle, watches him with a creased brow.

“You should stay lying down,” he says, after Éomer has had a moment to catch his breath.

He smirks. “If I lay for too long, I shall lose the use of my legs entirely.”

Faramir shakes his head, but with a seeming sense of idle fondness or amusement—Éomer will take either in the moment, and asks—rather exasperated with himself—for Faramir to push over the piss pot. In this, at least, he feels no embarrassment beyond the shame of being unable to stand and walk outside for the time it would take to relieve himself in the snow.

Faramir, for his part, doesn’t comment on it and instead asks, once Éomer is done, “Do you think you can eat now? I have tried to give you broth, but if you can stomach the meat, you’d best try to better regain your strength.”

Éomer looks hungrily at the pot sitting near the fire, at the rabbits hanging, and says, “Yes, I can eat. Thank you.”

A few moments later, Faramir passes him a wooden bowl and spoon filled with a lukewarm rabbit soup. Éomer, perhaps on purpose, lets his fingers graze Faramir’s during the passing. Faramir pulls back abruptly, his fingers curling into a fist, and says, “I will see to your horse. Eat.”

An odd man, Éomer thinks, and then begins to eat the stew—somewhat bland, but warm and filling and not distasteful in the least. He’s had leagues worse, and often. In truth, whenever Éowyn attempts to cook, Éomer immediately begins to look for ways to keep busy. She’s talented at many things, but cooking is without a doubt not one of them. In comparison, Faramir’s stew is near the best Éomer has ever tasted.

He finishes the bowl, though says no when Faramir returns and asks if he’d like more.

Instead, he falls back to sleep, the warm fire at his back, creating a beautiful contrast of shadow and light where it’s echo touches Faramir’s skin as the man putters about the room.

He doesn’t sleep for long this time. The room is still light when he wakes, and Faramir is sitting against the wall next to the fireplace, head tilting as though he’s about to fall asleep where he sits. He’d not climbed back into the blankets with Éomer then, despite the chill invading the room, as much as the fire is trying to keep it at bay.

“You should join me,” Éomer says, and his voice is rough with sleep.

Faramir startles up, looking at him with wide, beautiful eyes.

“I do not wish to intrude on your space,” Faramir says, haltingly.

Éomer snorts and says, “Once you’ve shared a bed with two other men and three horses, there’s no such notion any longer. Come, the room is cold and there’s naught else to do but sleep and keep warm.”

It seems to take an age, but eventually, Faramir slips under blankets and lays down atop the pallet. Éomer, for all that he winces at the sharp tug of his pained abdomen, scoots close enough that their sides line up and press against each other. Faramir lies as stiffly as steel, as though more likely to break than bend.

Éomer sighs, and says, “I will not try anything, if that is what has you so uncomfortable.”

Faramir twitches and he is close enough that Éomer can feel his breath when it hitches.

“i—no. I wasn’t worried about that,” he says, and it’s a relief for Éomer to know his honor is not being questioned. “It’s simply that I do not often…have opportunity to be this close to…others.” A short pause, and then, “My brother, occasionally. When he—when he is home, when we are both home together.”

Bewildered, Éomer asks, “Surely you’ve shared blankets with others before?”

“No.”

“Your friends—parents? You do not embrace them in joy after a good hunt? After a successful battle?”

“I’m not—”

Éomer waits, patiently as though for a skittish horse to come closer.

Faramir lets out a long breath. “I am not one men wish to embrace, truly. I often fall short of such things that would be worthy of celebration, in any case. My brother is—” He stops, and then with an added trace of petulance, he says, “Not everyone is as undiscerning as the men of the Rohirrim.”

Éomer doubts this—the way of men cannot be so different in the times of battle and war and self-preservation in the cold of night and winter—and says, “Perhaps, but you need not feel at a distance with me—I am a man of the undiscerning Rohirrim, as you say, and I’m well-used to sharing body heat when the need calls for it.”

Faramir doesn’t answer, but moment by moment, the tense set of his shoulders and spine seem to relax against Éomer’s body. The warmth and comfort of having another so near eases him back into sleep.

This time, when he wakes, he rubs a hand over his cheek and grimaces at the rough feeling of the hair on his face that has gotten too long for comfort. Even in the winter, he dislikes to wear it as such. When Faramir wakes, Éomer asks if he’d be willing to fetch him his knife.

Faramir eyes him warily and asks, “What are you going to do?”

Amused, Éomer answers by rubbing his hand across his beard, tugging at the scratchy hair.

“Shave,” he says, and Faramir blinks. Éomer raises one eyebrow and asks, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help me?”

Faramir swallows obviously, his eyes darting to the window and the door and the fireplace before he meets Éomer’s again. “You’d trust me that close to your throat with a knife?”

Éomer says simply, “Why spend so much time and effort to help me heal only to try and kill me now?”

Hesitant, Faramir nods, and with a few moments, Éomer is lifting his head to allow room for Faramir to carefully—and he is oh so careful, the soft yet battle-rough fingers pressing into Éomer’s skin to carefully scrape the knife along, cutting the hair slowly and easily without catching skin.

It’s dangerous, that’s true, but it’s soothing enough—perhaps that says something about him. He closes his eyes, letting the warmth of Faramir’s soft touch keep him relaxed.

Eventually, Faramir sits back, setting the knife down next to the dirtied bowl of water.

“Well, that’s as close as I can manage. I dare not risk more.”

Éomer runs a hand across his jaw—it’s hardly smooth, but he wouldn’t have wanted it completely bare anyway; he just dislikes the thought of an animal taking over the bottom half of his face.

“This is done well,” he says, nodding, and smiles at Faramir whose cheeks darken with a flush of—embarrassment? Pleasure? Éomer’s eyebrows go up in a small amount of curiosity and surprise.

Testing a theory, he asks, “How did you learn?”

Faramir clears his throat. “My brother.”

“Well, you’re very talented,” he says, watching carefully. “I should have to thank your brother for teaching you.”

Yes—his face holds that red tinge still, though he’s looking away now. The smell of flowers seems to sweeten in the room, just enough to be noticeable. Well, Éomer certainly wishes he wasn’t quite so painfully injured now. Softly, he says, “You’re beautiful,” and Faramir’s head snaps up, “a skilled hunter, an admirable warrior, kind-hearted, a decent cook and an equally decent healer, and now you’re capable of shaving me as well.”

Faramir’s turned completely away now, and Éomer has no doubt it’s to hide the conflict of emotions he must be feeling at the praise and well-meaning compliments. They’re all true, of course, but either the man has rarely heard his virtues be admired, or he’s truly easily embarrassed—and Éomer finds it hard to believe in the second option.

The sweet smell of grass and flowers intensifies; if Éomer didn’t know better, he’d think someone had hung wildflowers up to dry. There’s another smell underneath it, something even warmer. That smell, of course, is familiar enough, though the fact that Faramir is aroused here, now, by Éomer—injured and bedridden and unable to so much as stand to piss on his own—is enough to nearly make his cock twitch where it lies by his thigh.

It’s not enough, of course—the pain in his abdomen spikes with the slightest shift, and his cock stays mercilessly soft even with Faramir’s scent filling the room, his flushed cheeks and heated skin enough to make his desires obvious.

Faramir clears his throat again and, not quite shaking, says firmly, “I’m, ah, sorry. I’ll—take a walk.”

Éomer answers, “You certainly don’t have to.”

Faramir, not quite shy so much as uncertain, glances at Éomer with a frown on his lips.

“I can’t do anything for you, my wound being what it is, but I’d enjoy—if you are so inclined, I’d like to watch you take care of yourself. Perhaps you’d like me to.”

It’s clear enough that his body would like it; perhaps he will accept the offer.

There is no danger in a permanent bond without a knot, and Éomer is far from hardness—a knot is a sure impossibility. Éomer has the idle thought that he might be tempted to take Faramir into a bond if he could, if Faramir reciprocated the idea. It’s a foolish thought—they hardly know one another, despite the circumstances, and Éomer’s bonding mark is his uncle’s to give away in a political match he’s not yet decided on.

He can no more take a random mate than Éowyn would be allowed to as a woman.

By Rohan, the temptation settles in his gut anyway as Faramir looks at him, grey eyes piercing, and nods. The light of the fire plays against his skin as he slowly undresses, his fingers trembling on the cloth.

Éomer, voice gone deep and eyes gone dark, says roughly, “Good.”

With every slow reveal of soft, pale skin, Éomer hums in approval and pleased desire. When Faramir finally draws out his cock, hard and dripping already, curved and pink except where it’s darkened into a heavy red at the head, Éomer can’t help his answering growl, nor the way his hips twitch. Sharp pain runs through his gut, but his cock valiantly twitches despite it.

The smell of Faramir’s arousal fills the room. His slick is dripping down his thighs from his hole, readying itself already for an alpha, for his alpha—for Éomer, in fact, Faramir’s body reacting to Éomer’s presence, his warmth and his scent and his words. He must be nearly ready to be filled up, his hole ready to clench and swallow around Éomer’s cock, needing the thrust and the friction and the pleasure of the very act. Éomer would give him his every plea, his every desire—he wouldn’t make Faramir beg; he’d give him everything he asked for and more.

He would fill him and knot him and claim him as his own.

He gasps, watching Faramir pull on his cock, face twisted up in sheer arousal and mild embarrassment still, mouth open enough to pant with his need.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, and wishes he was close enough to touch.

It doesn’t take long, perhaps due to the fact that Faramir isn’t in heat—he doesn’t need to be filled to reach his climax, not now. Éomer already frames it in his mind, Faramir on all fours, his ass lifted up, hole presented as he pants through his heat, asking so sweetly—or perhaps demanding without an ounce of patience—for Éomer’s cock to fill him up, to fuck into him wildly and with abandon, a rough catalyst of desire and love and rutting pleasure.

Faramir comes, leaking over his fist. He collapses down on the pallet, breathing heavy. His skin is so pink, warm to the touch when Éomer reaches out despite the chill still in the room. Éomer traces Faramir’s face with gentle fingers and he says, “I’d have you if I could.”

Faramir squeezes his eyes shut then, and something like pain crosses his face.

“Yes,” he says, finally, and it sounds like giving in, “I would as well.”

But Éomer is who he is, and Faramir is who he is—

And it just cannot be.

It takes two more weeks for Éomer to heal well enough to fall on a makeshift carriage made out of half a cottage wall, and for Firefoot to pull him along as Faramir walks beside him. When they reach Edoras, Éomer stumbles on his feet—but he is capable enough of walking into the city himself.

He rubs Firefoot’s neck and says, “Take him with you, and take care of him.”

Faramir looks at him in surprise, but doesn’t reject this precious gift. Good. It would be an insult.

“Thank you,” Faramir says, and it is with one more fleeting kiss that they bid their farewells.

Éomer watches Faramir ride until he’s no longer visible, Firefoot swift and unburdened by Éomer’s weight. He sighs, and with a grimace as he clutches the injury that has yet to fully heal, he turns and begins the long, trudging walk up the path toward Edoras—toward his uncle and sister who have both no doubt been led to think him dead.

He takes one more glance back, just in case—but all there is to see is rough, barren hills covered in bits of frost and snow. The sun is setting, and Éomer sighs as something in his chest twists and gives way.

When he heals—when he is capable of riding again—

Perhaps he will ride to Gondor, to the white city.

Perhaps he will find him, and claim him, consequences be damned.


End file.
